Home is traditionally perceived as the inviolable place of the family, evoking all the notions of warmth, security and belongingness. The house outside the city most especially aspires to a picture of contemplative bliss: the slanting roof, the sprawling lawn, the white picket fence. When we say, “home is where the heart is,” we try to sound earnest, not ironic.
And why should it be otherwise? Where else but in our homes do we feel safe, loved and protected? As the shell that encloses our private life, doesn’t the home allow us the utmost freedom to be ourselves?